


The Crooked Kingdom [ON HOLD]

by coconutcluster



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: AU, Cussing, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Prinxiety - Freeform, Well - Freeform, angstangstangst babey, but also some straight up fluff, but he's also irish, demy?, i thought that was important, idk man, irish!patton, logicality - Freeform, partially inspired by the selection series!!!, patton is also a rebel, prince!remy, rebel!literally everyone else, receit, tw for violence!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-13
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-10-09 17:34:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17411243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coconutcluster/pseuds/coconutcluster
Summary: After the third World War - which decimated the already-fragile foundations of the world's nations - America has been reformed; education is at its peak, and it's regarded as a privilege only the smartest, richest, or most talented people can obtain. Teachers, scientists, fine arts experts, historians, all shoved aside and underappreciated before the war, are the aristocracy. The rest of the country (the poor, the desolate, the average, the shadows) is left to the ruins of the post-war country, and when it's clear that the king has no plans to improve their situations, a Resistance is formed, including (but not limited to): an Irish immigrant with a family to create a future for, a thief with a vendetta, a rejected genius, and an artist with a passion for reformation (not to mention an ambitious royal advisor who's been kept in the dark a bit too long), sent to the castle with one mission.Bring the king down.





	1. Intro - A.K.A. The beginning of chaos.

**Author's Note:**

> OK SO the first half of this chapter - and this chapter alone - is formatted a little oddly and very straightforward plot/character-wise because I didn't expect to actually make it a story (it was just an AU pitch until I decided halfway through the first chapter that i may as well write it out bc it was already nine pages long lol). The rest of the chapters are and will be formatted as a normal story. sorry for the weirdness.

Several,  _ several  _ years in the future, war has decimated the world again and again, leaving countries as crumbled memorials to their leaders’ corruption and their citizens as a vestige of the past. 

Sound overly poetic? Yeah.

As nations started to rebuild, governments were redesigned - democracies were abandoned “temporarily” in favor of autocracy, so the power was condensed and less likely to cause grudges between states, since only  _ one  _ person held it - and along with it, ideologies of a proper society changed. An emphasis landed on intelligence and education with little regards to anything else (though artistic and musical talent wasn’t exactly frowned upon); to be educated became the greatest achievement and the highest privilege, unattainable to most due to tightened acceptance rates and skyrocketed tuition, and it was rare that anyone without preexisting familial standing in academic fields made it past secondary school. Teachers, professors, scientists, mathematicians, historians, fine arts experts, and researchers soon made up the aristocracy. 

Academy flourished mainly in Eastern America, where schools and old government buildings still stood relatively tall, with North Carolina’s capital holding the crown jewel of the country: the Goethe castle, wherein the king and royal academics (along with the indentured servants) stayed. As one traveled further out from the castle and across the nation - including what was once Canada, though Mexico had long since assimilated with South America and divided the two nations somewhat evenly - conditions were visibly poorer, and jobs became less appealing and available (though California harbored quite a number of well-off “freelancers”); mere states over from the Carolinas had nondescript cities of failed artists and basic peacekeepers, while the other side of the country was nearly desolate, filled with the uneducated, the impoverished and downtrod, the bottom of the barrel. To escape the low-ranking life was relatively impossible - anything below a genius IQ or prodigious talent doomed one to continue the family rank for generations to come. 

Pleas for a more fair system were promptly ignored by the monarch.

Enter the Resistance - or, as they’re more commonly known, the rebels - an expansive group of citizens, usually from the Outer Edges, fighting to overthrow the monarchy in favor of restoring the democracy for the recognition and emphasis on a fair, united voice of the people. They’re all across the country - from Washington, the immigrants and “lower” members of society, to the Dakotas, home to the almosts (almost famous, almost accepted, almost hired), to Maine and the News, full of farmers and labor workers - fighting for the same cause. 

Enter, specifically, Damien Perkovich, a cunning thief whose parents were ripped from their positions at a university in their Michigan town due to more “qualified” professors arriving from the capital, thrusting the family into near-poverty; Patton Walsh, the oldest son in a family of Irish immigrants, living in the slums of Washington, determined to make a life for him and his family and give his siblings the future they deserve; Logan Maxwell, whose mother was a recognized chemist before she suffered a bout of severe migraines that eventually led to permanent bedrest, forcing her and her son into the sterile corners of Iowa (despite Logan’s remarkable IQ, he was denied entry to any notable school due to the stigma of his mother’s downfall); and lastly, Virgil O’Keefe, a talented artist and son of a rather popular psychologist in northern Tennessee, angered by the nonchalant acceptance of the harsh conditions for citizens on the Outer Edges by the elite around him. 

A small collection of rebels, handpicked to infiltrate Goethe castle.

The goal is to collect data, hopefully on the king and where he funnels the country’s funds instead of the impoverished who desperately need it - they’ll act as indentured servants, shadows in the castle’s halls, pushed to the side and ignored enough to be inconspicuous.

It’s not a safe mission. It’s not easy. But it’s their best shot at a rebellion that matters, one that lasts. 

The group - who meets for the first time on the train ride to the castle, wherein Virgil and Damien almost kill each other while Patton and Logan bond over the odd conditions of their homes (from the on-off rain and droughts in post-war Washington to the constant smell of antiseptic that seems to plague medical-rooted Iowa) - arrives at the castle in a short week, dressed in scraggly clothing and a subtle layer of dirt, effectively passing for desperate job-seekers and bedraggled poor. The air in the main hall is heavy as they shuffle in behind a straight-backed butler, and before they know it, they’re before the king himself, and he is… different than what they imagined. 

He sits in the throne with an odd, slumped posture, as if bored with his reign, but his eyes are keen and far to pale-gray to be natural; a twitching smirk pulls at his lips as the four boys are led to the steps before him, and his fingers curl around the golden armrest of his seat as he looks them over carefully (Damien has to nudge Virgil to stop fidgeting, which nearly starts a fight right then and there). What’s truly odd, however, is the severe  _ emptiness  _ of the room around them - the hall is devoid of bustling maids or composed guards, as the boys expected; the only other people in the room are the butler that led them here, a boy in a white uniform and red sash standing just behind the king’s throne, and a boy sitting prim on a cushioned seat beside the king, hair neatly combed but falling into bored eyes as he glances between the king and newcomers as if he’s watching a show. 

“These are the new ones?” the king asks slowly, his precise gaze flicking to the butler momentarily, who just nods; he hums under his breath, eyes murky with thought. “They truly are getting younger and younger, aren’t they?” he chuckles. 

The boy sitting beside him frowns - he looks to the group before him, and it’s right when he makes eye contact with Damien that they realize who he is.

Prince Remy, the darling of the country, looks nothing like his father; all dark looks to the king’s fair blonde hair and pale, aging skin, he’s lean and dressed in shades of purple and gold and pristine white, watching the newcomers with squinty gray eyes. He stares at Damien for a moment, gaze flickering from his head to his toes, before leaning back in his seat and looking to his father expectantly.

“Take them to the slave quarters,” the king says, waving a hand as if waving them away. The boy with the sash leans forward and mutters something to him. “The servants’ quarters. Of course.” He sends a sharp glance to the boy, who simply nods and steps back into the shadow of the throne as the king hisses, “That’s what I said.” 

And they’re off, ushered away from the throne room as soon as they’d come, though an expectation for what’s to come has more than formed in their minds. The king watches their departure without blinking and looks away as soon as they’re in his peripheral, bored by the passing spectacle already - but with a glance back, Virgil finds the boy with sash staring after them, eyebrows furrowed and head tilted to the side. He meets Virgil’s eyes.

And the doors close behind them.

 

Among all the other variables in their situation, one thing remains certain: the servants’ quarters are just as awful as they expected.

The beds are rickety, the wallpaper is peeling, the blankets are scarce and thin, and the room itself is devoid of windows, casting the faded wooden furniture in constant shadows; the air is heavy with something from not long ago, something that lingers over the group’s shoulders as soon as they step in.

They’re given their assignments by the butler as soon as they “get situated” (read: look around the room once) - Logan will work in the infirmary, Patton in the kitchen (which he, unlike the others in his group, is overjoyed by), Damien on the grounds, and Virgil in the halls as a butler - and then the man is off, turning crisply on his heel and slamming the door shut behind himself. They all share a wary glance, take a deep breath, and get to bed. Their new lives start tomorrow.

 

Logan and Patton are already gone by the time Virgil wakes up the next morning - whether they got up together or not is up for guessing, but judging by the smattering of pink that crossed Logan’s face every time Patton talked with his bouncy Irish lilt the day before, it’s more than likely - so he rises alone (that is, he chooses to ignore Damien’s bustling in the corner of the room) and gets ready in the scratchy uniform provided for him. He’s in the main dining hall merely a half an hour later, ushered into a corner and pushed to the back of a small cluster of maids and butlers. He’s pointless, he soon finds, a decoration more than personnel as he stands against the wall empty-handed. Breakfast is served - the boy with the sash is absent from the scene, not that Virgil is looking for him, though the prince and his parents both sit at the end of the table, silent over their meal - and finished without him so much as lifting a finger. The rest of the day passes similarly; the most he does is run a letter from one officer’s room to another’s before he’s ushered back to his position on the edges of whatever room he’s in. It’s a simple job, and it’s simply aggravating.

Logan is far more prepared for his status as a medical aid than he thought. Sure, the pure white of the infirmary and overwhelming scent of antiseptic makes him want to jump out a window as soon as he steps in, but he has to admit it’s familiar, and a part of him almost feels at home. He’d never really been on the medical side of his mother’s treatment while she was in the hospital, but caring for her during her bedrest seems to have stuck with him; he’s already knowledgeable about 99% of what the on-shift nurse tells him (not that the man listens to any of his interjections informing him of that fact). He gets to work with his hands, too, and the work itself (mostly patching up some of the soldiers after their training) is methodical and relaxing - but every time he starts to get comfortable with it, all he can think about is his opportunity of being a doctor, a scientist, a teacher, anything, ripped from him by the king’s system, and the fire in his chest burns all over again. (It does help, however, that a certain Irish boy pops in every so often under the complaint of a burn on a hand that Logan can just never seem to find.)

Patton loves the kitchen the minute he steps in. It smells like sugar and butter and baking cakes and sizzling bacon, and it just feels right - he always cooked for his siblings back home, and he learned to make do with what little they had in the fridge (and it was certainly not easy, since his brothers and sisters were determined to prepare for their lives as ‘fancy people’ and only eat the most beautiful of cuisines). He’s stationed at the fridge, a simple runner boy, but he’s not really complaining. Just being around the bustle of a stocked kitchen makes him feel warm inside; it’s a warmth that’s dampened slightly when he remembers what he’s here for, which only makes him wish his siblings were here to try the food. (He does “accidentally” brush up against the oven or stove top a few times, though, claiming a burn to skip to the infirmary and chat with a special medical aid. About the burn, of course. He always feels better after that.)

Turns out, “the grounds,” are very, very large; Damien doesn’t know what he expected, really, since it’s the freaking castle, but he’s not exactly upset to be stationed in the main garden, raking dead leaves up and digging holes in the semi-frozen ground for a new batch of spring flowers. It’s not exactly the sly handiwork he has a passion for, but it is still manual, and he’s willing to take it. Everything goes smoothly (other than the fact that he gets absolutely zero intel while sweating in what’s essentially the backyard of the castle) until a week into the mission.

A figure makes its way towards the garden - they’re wearing a cloak, some dark shade Damien can’t really make out between hedges, with the hood up, and all the alarm bells in his head go off at once. He says nothing, just ducks down a bit more behind the bush he’s raking around, and watches the figure stroll through the garden. 

They stop before each flower, reaching a slim hand out to cup them, as if to simply admire them, before moving on, the hood of their cloak never budging. Eventually they reach the stretch of ground that Damien’s supposed to be working on. 

He straightens up and starts raking again, smoothing the curiosity from his face - the stranger walks past his bush without a word. Damien makes the mistake of glancing back a second later, only to see them leaning against a trellis a few feet away, watching him quietly.

“Can I help you?” he says, his voice laced with as little venom as he can manage, mostly because he’d like to stay in one piece and not beheaded before the whole kingdom, thank you very much. 

“You could.” The stranger just laughs at Damien’s frown. “I’m not sure with what yet, but I am sure I’ll think of something, if I really want to. And I do.”

“...right. Well, I have a job to do, so-”

“Oh, I’m sure no one will bother you while I’m here.”

Damien snorts, shaking his head and turning back to his rake. “Really? And why is that?”

“You tell me.” 

He sighs, glances back, and his blood runs cold. 

Remy Chamberlain is much, much prettier up close - the cameras don’t do his dark waves any justice, Damien thinks quite clearly among the panic running through his mind, and the prince’s eyes are a bright gray, framed by long, dark eyelashes, and his mouth is upturned in a subtle smirk, and his uniform has been traded out for a simple purple sweater and slacks - and Damien all but short circuits. 

“You alright there, hon?” comes Remy’s voice through his mental shutdown a few seconds later; he snaps back to attention to find the prince staring at him with a smile. “Ah, I thought I’d lost you. It would have been a shame, really, but I do understand.” He puts a hand over his heart, sighing dramatically as he leans more against the trellis beside him. “I do tend to have that effect.” 

Damien actually manages a normal laugh at that - Remy glances to him, clearly pleased. 

“So what’s your name, stranger?” the prince smiles, strolling over to the bush near Damien and batting his lashes - Damien can’t tell if it’s a joke or not, but he chokes out a stutter-y “Damien,” nonetheless. Remy raises his eyebrows. 

“I like it,” he says decisively, standing straight. “Are you always in the garden, Damien?”

“...yes?”

“Noted. I guess I’ll have to take up botany,” Remy winks. Damien barely gets a chance to formulate a response before a bell chimes once overhead - Remy glares at the bell tower, pulling his cloak tighter around himself as he sighs. “Unfortunately, I have to cut our short meeting even shorter, but I will be back.” He leans over, plants a kiss on Damien’s cheek, and strides out of the garden, cloak fluttering behind him like wings. 

Damien’s face is on fire despite the chill in the air, and he knows it’s going to be a long, long mission.

 

It’s two weeks into the mission that Virgil hears the whispers behind the doors. (Literally.)

He’s on the second floor, attending to a shattered vase after a frantic maid ran to him with tears streaking down her face (she was babbling almost incoherently about how she’ll lose her job and be thrown out on the streets, so he grabbed a broom and told her to fill his spot for a bit while he cleans it up, all problems solved), when he hears muffled voices from a room he’d been told was no longer in use, a menial library full of dated documents and discarded stories. Whoever’s speaking sounds stiff, full of forced politeness, and it isn’t until Virgil hears the king’s raspy chuckle that his interest is piqued. 

He glances up and down the hall before pressing an ear to the door - it’s hard to hear what’s happening, but he remembers seeing identical doors in the hall over, so surely they lead to the same place? (It’s worth a try, anyway.) So he tucks his broom away in a corner, straightens his vest and back, and strides around the corner, keeping an eye and ear out for any witness as he makes his way to the doors, footsteps silent and careful. 

The doors are exactly where he remembered - he’s almost glad to be on butler duty, if only to get a better understanding of the castle layout in case of emergency (or eavesdropping, obviously, but nevermind that) - and he’s at their handles in an instant, leaning into the crease between the two doors and straining to hear the specifics of the conversation. He catches a few words - “treaty,” “Eurasia,” and “inheritance,” are the clearest, as if they’re emphasized in their respective contexts - but piecing the snippets together proves nearly impossible. 

Virgil takes a deep breath, steadies himself, and pushes the door open.

All he sees at first are rows and rows of shelves; they’re all filled to the brim with leather-bound books and scrolls - legitimate scrolls, parchment and everything, which makes him wonder how long the library has been adding to its collection - that are all covered in thick layers of dust, which seems to hover in the air around his face and force its way into his nose and throat. He swallows a cough and ducks behind the nearest shelf, peeking through the gaps in the books to watch for the king and his uncomfortable guest. 

It takes a few minutes, but he soon sees the pair stroll past a shelf three rows down from where he’s is crouched. The king is in a simple white jacket with gold accents and black pants as he walks alongside the knobby, mustached-man beside him, hands folded tensely behind his back. The other man talks in a thick European accent that Virgil can’t name: “We cannot continue this, Ignatius. It was clever, I’ll admit, but it’s gotten out of hand; my people are growing rebellious-”

“I know of rebels,” the king sighs (as if it’s a simple inconvenience that half his kingdom wants to dethrone or behead him), waving a hand at the man to shoo the concern from his attention. “Truly, ignoring them is the best option.”

Virgil forces a snort back down his throat.  _ How’s that working out for you, your Highness? _

“Ignatius.” The man stops in his tracks, forcing the king to glance over his shoulder to face him as he continues. “This is no nuisance to be ignored. Bulgaria’s economy has been on the edge of crumbling since the last legitimate war, and our agreement has only helped it so much. My people are tired of false bloodshed. It’s time for a treaty, and it’s best we do it as soon as possible.”

The library goes quiet. 

“A treaty?” the king repeats after a few moments of the heavy silence that drapes itself across every inch of the room, his voice honeyed. “Oh, Aleksander-”

“Aleksi.”

“-surely you aren’t saying what I think you are?” Aleksi - Bulgaria’s prime minister, Virgil assumes - frowns as the king just tsks, shaking his head. “And to think, we had such a lovely arrangement! Perhaps you’re correct,” he concedes; Aleksi perks up. “I’ll have Roman draft a treaty immediately.”  _ Roman, Roman, Roman _ \- Virgil tucks the name away for later investigation and refocuses on the scene before him: Aleksi smiles, his posture relaxing finally.

“Wonderful,” he breathes as he reaches to shake the king’s hand, though the monarch doesn’t extend it, and Aleksi retracts his own a second later, clearing his throat. “I’ll return shortly, then-”

“Yes, I’ll have my troops at the ready by next week.”

Aleksi’s smile falls. “Excuse me?”

“If your people are tired of false bloodshed,” the king enunciates, “then I will give them the true experience. A treaty defining the details of war will be on my desk by tomorrow; I take it you’ll be punctual in its signing.”

“What-” The prime minister’s face goes slack as the king continues his stroll through the library - Aleksi snaps back to attention as the door Virgil came through swings open and the king starts to leave. “Wait, Ignatius- that’s highly unnecessary!” The king doesn’t look back. “Ignatius!”

“Your majesty,” the king corrects, face dark and voice low as he looks back, though his eyes shine with something triumphant. 

Aleksi stops. “You are  _ not  _ my majesty.”

“Perhaps not yet. So what do you say, Aleksander?”

“It’s Ale-” The prime minister takes a deep breath; he meets the king’s eyes, hands curled into fists at his sides. “We can keep the agreement - for now, mind you. My people will not remain docile in your plans forever.”

The king hums as a grotesque parody of a smile crawls onto his face, and he shrugs, stepping away from the door and motioning for Aleksi to pass through. “Very well. I’ll have the guards escort you back to your room.”

Aleksi storms past him and slams the door.

Virgil inches forward, peeking around the edge of the shelf he’s crouched behind to watch the king chuckle, smooth his jacket, and pull the door open, striding into the hallway and out of sight. 

_ My people will not remain docile in your plans forever… false bloodshed…  _ America’s war with half of Europe suddenly becomes a lot more conspicuous. 

Virgil releases a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and steps into the open, keeping his footsteps light and mind alert as he hurries to the other doors-

-and runs straight into another person. 

The two of them collide in a jumble of muffled shrieks and flailing limbs; Virgil lands hard on his back, and before he can make a sound, a hand is clapped over his mouth, and he’s face to face with his fellow shadow in the library’s shelves: a boy his age with messy chestnut waves and wide brown eyes, dressed in a simple black cloak, white button down, black pants, and short black boots, a boy Virgil takes less than a second to recognize. It’s the boy with the sash - though the red accessory is nowhere to be seen on him now - who stood behind the king’s throne the day Virgil and the others were brought in. His perfect posture is gone as he straddles Virgil and glances wildly to the doors, waiting until the king’s footsteps fade into nothingness down the hall before he takes his hand off Virgil’s mouth and backs off him, crawling a few feet away. 

“Who the  _ hell  _ are you,” Virgil snaps, “and what the  _ hell  _ was that?”

“What are you doing here?” the boy says instead, standing up and brushing imaginary dirt from his outfit, though his eyes are still wary as he gazes down at him. He hesitantly extends a hand that Virgil ignores as he hauls himself off the ground. 

“What are  _ you  _ doing here?”

The boy frowns. “I think I rank higher than you, thank you very much. Answer me first.”

“Fuck you.”

“Okay, wow, no thank you? And you didn’t answer me.” Virgil flips him off, and his frown deepens as he straightens his back. “If you don’t tell me why you’re in here, I’ll have to let the king know.”

Virgil gives a sharp exhale, looking the boy up and down with a single raised eyebrow. “Really? And what, you’ll leave out the fact that you were here, too?” He cocks his head to the side, looking to the ceiling as if contemplating something, and says in a voice sugary-sweet, “Or should I tell him about that first?” 

He almost - almost - feels bad about it as the boy’s tan complexion turns ashen, his gaze murky and unfocused, right before he grabs Virgil’s arm and tugs him so close their noses are almost touching. 

“You can’t tell him,” he whispers, voice frantic - Virgil actually does feel a little bad then - and he glances to the doors again, like the king will kick them down at any second. “Please, please don’t tell anyone, or- um-”

“Or what?”

The boy meets his gaze, and his eyes light up. “I’ll tell him you’re not really a servant.”

Virgil’s blood runs cold. “What the hell are you talking about? Of course I am,” he lies, ripping his arm from the boy’s grasp and taking a step back away from him.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, it’s almost like I work as a servant! Connect the dots, genius-”

“Your hands don’t have any callouses.” The boy’s tone is final, and Virgil can’t help but glance down at his palms before curling his fingers into them. “The king doesn’t take new servants; he thinks they have poor work ethic. The Irish kid and the one with the spots on his face, I’d believe as servants, but you and the boy with the black glasses? You all are fresh to the force - you’re only here because someone lied to get you in.” Virgil blinks wide-eyed at him. “Am I wrong?”

A million scenarios run through his head then - the king finding out about him and the others, the rebellion being crushed before it can even grow, the disappointed look in his father’s eyes - and far,  _ far  _ too many of them end with his death. Death means failed mission. 

No matter what he tells himself any other time of day, he is not a failure. 

In the blink of an eye, the edges of the boy’s cloak are gripped tight in Virgil’s fists; the pair nose to nose once more, only the power balance has been switched in Virgil’s favor - he watches the boy’s eyes widen again as he growls, “I’m gonna say this one time, so I want you to listen real carefully, okay? You’re not gonna say a damn thing about this to  _ anyone  _ outside this room right now, and if you do, I’ll make sure to rip your pretty eyes out and store them in a jar on my shelf for everyone to see. Got it?”

The boy scowls. “Only if you don’t say anything either.”

“...deal.” They both go quiet as the boy sighs in relief, though Virgil doesn’t release his hold on his cloak. “You still didn’t tell me who you are.”

And the boy, with the pallor all but disappeared from his complexion, gives him a smile - a cheeky, crooked grin that lights up his face, and Virgil notices very suddenly that this kid is really, really cute, and it certainly doesn’t help that they’re an inch away from each other. “I’m the royal advisor.”

Virgil blinks at him again. “You’re like, seventeen. How are you the royal advisor?”

“I’m nineteen,” the boy argues, then hesitates. “And my predecessor is out of office. Indefinitely. I had to step in last minute,” he admits, “as the advisor in training.”

“Indefinitely?” The boy nods slowly. “Did you fucking  _ kill  _ the royal advisor?”

“What? No!”

“That’s what it sounds like you did.”

“Wh- you- I didn’t kill anyone!”

“Whatever you say...  uh-”

“Roman,” the boy supplies, albeit grumpily.

_ I’ll have Roman draft a treaty _ .

“Oh.” Virgil looks him over again, and yeah, needless to say, that all makes sense now. “Ohhhhhh.”

Roman stares at him, eyebrows furrowed, and Virgil has to be imagining the blush creeping across his face as he says, “Do you wanna tell me your name, or are you just gonna keep doing that?”

“...right,” Virgil coughs, finally letting go of Roman’s cloak. “I’m Virgil.”

Roman tilts his head at him as he swipes at the creases in his cloak, a smile twitching at his lips. “Virgil, huh? I like that.” He glances at the clock above the door behind them. “Do your friends have names, then?” Virgil doesn’t respond - he’s still not completely sure he can trust Roman - and the advisor looks back to him with a small laugh. “Relax, I’m not going to tattle to anyone about you all. Besides, I can just look up your files if I really want to, I’d just rather hear it from you.”

Virgil hesitates, but finally he says, “Damien is the one with dark blonde hair and- uh, vitiligo? I think he called it?” Roman nods. “The Irish one is Patton, and Logan has the black glasses and dark hair.”

“Damien, Patton, Logan,” Roman repeats in a sing-song voice, as if testing them out on his tongue. He glances back to Virgil a second later with a decisive nod. “Not as cute as ‘Virgil,’ but they sound nice enough.” He either misses or ignores Virgil’s blush as he leans forward and whispers, “And you’re all part of the rebellion, I presume?”

“No-”

“Virgil. I’m not going to tell anyone.” He pauses, hands folded behind his back as he taps his foot absentmindedly on the floor, before he glances up hopefully at Virgil. “Perhaps you’d like a bit of a stronger ally?” 

It takes Virgil a minute to comprehend what exactly Roman is suggesting. 

“ _ You _ want to be a rebel?!” 

Roman’s eyes go wide again, and he claps a hand back over Virgil’s mouth as he glances to the door, ushering them both behind a nearby shelf and out of view. “Yes,” he hisses, “but I’d like to keep that between us and your friends for now, thank you.”

“Right, right, sorry,” Virgil mutters, though Roman’s hand is still over his mouth, so it comes out more as a series of weird mumbles. He grabs Roman’s wrist and pushes it down. “Why do  _ you  _ want to be a rebel?” he whispers - Roman’s face darkens.

“The king has been keeping a lot from me,” he says, “which makes my job mostly pointless, but I knew there was a reason beyond me being younger than the last advisor.” He pauses, staring at a spot just to the left of Virgil’s head, and frowns. “He’s an awful man, Virgil. He has to go.” There’s something else to Roman’s voice, something even darker than his somber tone says outright, but Virgil decides to leave the explanation as it is for now. 

“Alright.” Roman perks up. “But you have to keep it on ultimate lockdown, Roman. This isn’t a special little club, it’s a mission, and you could get us all killed if you mess it up. I meant what I said earlier - I’ll keep your eyes in a jar if you screw this up for us.”

“My  _ pretty  _ eyes,” Roman corrects with a smile.

Heat crawls up Virgil’s face, but he just rolls his eyes and says, “Do we have a deal?”

Roman brushes his cloak off his arms and takes Virgil’s hand, intertwining their pinkie fingers, brandishing the link like a trophy.

“Deal.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now entering: the Darling of the country, angst, and the dorks of domesticity

The sun has always been a nuisance, in Remy’s opinion. 

Sure, it gives him nutrients and life and whatever, but seriously, the only thing waking him up at six in the morning should be his significant other, and considering he has none as the moment, it’s highly infuriating to open his eyes and feel sunbeams forcing themselves onto him. He doesn’t want nutrients. He wants to stay in bed until noon.

But for once, the sun gets a bit of leniency from him, because he’s up nearly an hour before it even dares show up outside his window. He’s dressed in a simple sweater and straight-legged slacks by five a.m. with a cup of the castle’s strongest coffee in his hands just half an hour later, fingers itching to grab his cloak right then and there - but the gardens are still empty, so he waits. 

He’s never really minded having a balcony that overlooks the castle’s wide display of flora; it’s not as if he’s ever really  _ cared _ , honestly, even when his mom tried to get him into botany when he was eight or nine. The flowers are pretty, sure, but they’ve just never piqued his interest. 

The gardeners are a different story.

It’s somewhat of a routine for him - wake up, go about morning activities (a.k.a. coffee), then sit on the balcony for a while and ‘read’,’ or, as he likes to call it, ‘enjoying the view’; and if his definition of “view” happens to be “shirtless boys surrounded by roses,” then that’s his business, no matter what his maids’ raised eyebrows suggest otherwise. 

And perhaps a specific gardener had caught his eye recently. Perhaps it felt a bit different than Remy is used to, and he’s a bit more motivated to… investigate. And  _ perhaps  _ his definition of investigating involves a fair amount of flirting.

Remy has a lot of opinions on definitions.

A passing figure in the gardens below catch his eye - not his recent subject of interest, but it does tell him that the gardeners are soon to trickle into the hedges for the day’s work, which means it’s time for Remy’s early morning stroll.

He grabs his cloak from where it’s draped over his desk chair and sweeps out the door, heading as quietly as he can down the hall. The halls are practically empty; there are a few maids and butlers standing stoic at the wall, and Remy nearly runs into one with black hair that falls into his eyes as the boy hurries down the hallway, gaze trained deliberately on the floor - normally Remy would make a small fuss about the lack of courtesy, but he’s on a mission, and he has no time for fusses of any size. 

The sun is just above the horizon when he steps out onto the paved path that leads to the garden; the sky is painted lavender and cotton-candy pink, pleasantly pastel to the barely-caffeinated prince’s eyes. (He takes another swig of coffee.) The morning air is cool against his skin - winter in the Carolinas has been milder this year, not that Remy is complaining - and brushes against his cloak in a way that makes it flutter behind him, and though he’d rather die than say it aloud, it makes him a bit more confident to feel the purple fabric fly behind him like wings.

Just as he thought, there’s a few more servants milling about in the garden as he brushes past the violet trellis at its entrance. They all glance at him and look away just as quickly - shyness has never been Remy’s thing, but it’s endearing enough, and he offers them small nods and quick smiles as he passes. His eyes graze over the hedges as he weaves between rose bushes and succulent displays, deliberate and careful. Finally - finally! - he finds what he’s looking for- or, rather, who he’s looking for. 

“Damien!” he calls across the garden; the boy in question looks up with a jolt, eyebrows raised before his eyes land on the prince. He gives a small, hesitant wave. 

Remy rushes through the remaining paths to Damien’s spot, careful to keep his back straight, and gives a tilted smile as he arrives beside the gardener, who just watches him with a slightly bemused expression. Without the sun in his eyes, Remy sees every detail of Damien’s skin - the dark tone offset by splashes of pallor on the left side of his face, which Remy can see across the back of his left hand from under the gardener’s thin black and yellow coat, and he notices close-up that Damien’s eyes are slightly different, with far more gold in one than the other brown one. 

Or, as Remy translates to the less sophisticated part of his mind: he’s fucking  _ hot _ . 

“Your Highness,” Damien smirks - it’s a far different attitude than their first meeting, where he couldn’t stop stuttering, and Remy is not complaining one bit. “I take it you’re doing well this morning?”

“Of course,” Remy says breezily, cocking his head to the side as he surveys the flowers under Damien’s care, “especially now that I’m here.” He gives the gardener a wink, and Damien just laughs. 

“I’m sure. Did you need something this morning, or am I simply a time-filler?”

“Don’t degrade yourself, darling - my time-fillers are almost all caffeine related, and I’ve already drank my coffee.  _ You  _ are my morning activity.” Damien raises an eyebrow. “So tell me! How are you this flawless morning?” 

Damien watches him for second, a thin smirk on his lips as he shakes his head at the prince. “I’m cold,” he chuckles finally. “This morning’ll be flawless once it gets above forty degrees.”

Remy hums in response - his eyes flicker from Damien’s head to his toes, eyebrows furrowed. “Is your coat not helping?” He recognizes it from the thin yellow lining as one of the castle’s regulation jackets, given to any servant who works outdoors. 

“It’s a good enough layer,” Damien shrugs. “It definitely helps at night.”

Remy’s easy smile falters. “At night? Why are you wearing it at night?”

“The servants’ hall gets cold, and the blankets are pretty thin, so it’s nice to have some extra coverage.” The gardener goes about trimming the white rose bush before him, but glances up when Remy doesn’t reply. “Your Highness?”

“What else is unsatisfactory about the servants’ quarters?” Remy says lowly. Damien’s face falls. 

“I wasn’t trying to insult the castle,” he says carefully, “I just-”

“You’re fine, Damien. It’s an honest question: what else is wrong there?”

Damien’s eyes flicker across Remy’s face, searching his expression for something he doesn’t seem to find as he huffs a stray lock of hair from his mismatch eyes. “There’s no windows,” he starts with a small laugh, “and the walls haven’t been painted since the last World War- I think a girl down the hall nearly got taken out by a light fixture last week.”

And he goes on, and on, and on, and Remy’s face darkens with every additional issue - not at Damien, but at himself. He had no idea about any of what Damien lists; how has he never visited the servants’ quarters? A twinge of embarrassment and guilt blossoms in his stomach. 

“Would you excuse me?” he exhales as Damien’s list dwindles to a stop - the gardener frowns. 

“Are you alright?”

Remy meets his gaze - it’s guarded, something else the prince seems to have missed before, but a sheen of concern fills Damien’s golden-brown eyes - and straightens up, pasting a knowing smile on his face. “Of course. I’m going to have a talk with my father,” he leans in, tugging gently at Damien’s collar and delighting at the shade of pink that graces the gardener’s face, “and see about improving some things around the castle. I’ll be back later.” 

He gives one last wink, and sweeps out the garden, letting his cape flutter behind him in the early morning breeze. He’d need all the confidence he could get.

 

_ Casual, casual, casual- you’re slouching, straighten up - ha - one step in front of the other, come on now, you belong here- _

Virgil keeps his eyes trained on the floor as he makes his way through the castle halls, hands folded neatly behind his back and jaw clenched. He just has to make it to the spot Roman told him about - an alcove by the library, with a potted plant and painting of a girl with a yellow headpiece - but there’s a pit in his stomach, a nauseating turning that tells him this is going to fail, he’s going to be found out and get the others killed, it’s going to be his fault for not playing his part well enough… 

But no one stops him. There’s barely anyone even in the halls, he notices with a hesitant rush of relief, just a few other servants who look dead inside as they stand stoic against the walls (Virgil doesn’t blame them). He supposes, to them, he just looks like a butler with a message to deliver. The thought brings his chin up a bit. Even as paranoia twinges in his chest, he keeps his gaze forward.

He scans the halls every few seconds for potted plants, paintings, or an obnoxiously bright red sash, cursing himself for not remembering the path to the library; he passes doorway after doorway after doorway, alcoves with golden branches and sculpted orchids and paintings of the royal family, but no potted plants, no yellow headpiece, no Roman-

“Virgil.”

He nearly jumps out of his skin. There, right at the end of the hall, stands the dark doors to the archive library, and beside it sits a tall fiscus in a ceramic pot, right next to a boy in a white and gold jacket with a red sash. 

“Roman,” Virgil snaps, trying not to sound too relieved, “you couldn’t have waved? Or something that doesn’t give me a heart attack?”

Roman raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing at his lips as he gives a small chuckle. “Sorry. It’s twenty after the meeting time - I was starting to think you died.”

“You wish.”

“I don’t, actually, but that’s beside the point.” He grabs Virgil’s wrist and tugs him further into the alcove with a quick glance up and down the hall, before turning back and saying a low voice, “I sat in on one of the king’s meetings this morning, with Minister Khitrov.” Virgil blinks at him. “The Bulgarian Prime Minister? They were discussing their agreement-”

“Which is?” All Virgil knows of since the evening in the library is ‘false bloodshed’ between Bulgaria and America - it gives him a fuzzy picture of the countries’ relationship, but the details are lost on him. 

Roman purses his lips. “I’m… not completely sure. They kept the conversation vague - probably because I was in there to write it down - but from what I’ve gathered, they’re creating the illusion of a fake war with Bulgaria, and the king pays the Minister to keep the image up.”

Virgil’s eyebrows raise as he leans against the small table in the alcove, arms crossed. “You got all that from one meeting?”

“Well... no,” Roman admits after a moment, “I mean, yes, but they didn’t outright say it- but it’s a strong conjecture-”

“We can’t go off  _ conjectures _ , Princey.” Roman’s nose scrunches at the nickname. “We need hard evidence if we’re gonna get the king off the throne, and your guesses are about as hard as a cotton ball.”

“And how exactly do you and your buddies plan on getting him off the throne in the first place?”

Virgil opens his mouth to respond, but stops short. 

How… what  _ are  _ they going to do once they have evidence? Show it to the public on camera and hope the rest of the country believes them? And what about all of the king’s allies? If what Roman says is true, and the king pays other leaders to play his game of charades, will they want to go along with his deposition? 

“That’s not my job,” Virgil says hoarsely. “I’m just here to gather information.” He catches sight of Roman’s smug look, irritation flooding his anxieties, and snaps, “Which, might I remind you, is what  _ you’re  _ supposed to do, too, and you’re not really delivering.”

Roman gives an indignant huff. “Ex _ cuse _ me! What exactly do you suggest I do? Waltz up to the king and ask him what he plans on doing to further his treason? Do you want me to ask him over tea, Virgil, or perhaps brunch?”

“I want you to lower your voice so  _ we  _ don’t get accused of treason, you moron,” Virgil hisses, taking a step closer to the royal advisor to keep the conversation quieter, but Roman isn’t finished.

“When you get any better information, come to me and I’ll gladly take your criticism, but as it stands, I’m in a far more prosperous position for gathering evidence, am I not?”

“Roman.” Virgil’s voice is low, more of a warning than a precaution as his hands curl into fists. “This isn’t a competition, it’s a job.”

“I’m very well aware of what it is, thank you. Believe it or not, I  _ am  _ taking it seriously - I’m sorry my work isn’t good enough for you, Virgil, but at least I have some work to show for myself!”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Virgil growls - the distance between the two of them shrinks even more as he takes another step, gaze flitting down the hall to check for intruders on their conversation. “You think I haven’t been working on this since I got here? Do you know how hard the others have been trying to stay undercover and get information? Patton is exhausted, Logan hasn’t has a full meal in days, I barely even  _ see  _ Damien- we’re not playing a game here, Roman. You’re not better than us - than me - just because you have a fancy title. Don’t act all high and mighty towards me, or you’re no better than the people we’re trying to get rid of.”

The hall falls completely silent as Roman stares at him, his complexion ashen and eyes wide; he and Virgil are only an inch apart, so close that Virgil wouldn’t be surprised if Roman could hear his heart racing - but all Virgil hears is the clicking echo of footsteps down the hall. He huffs a lock of hair out of his eyes. 

“Send for me when you have something useful,” he snaps, turning on his heel and stalking the opposite way, back to his post in the East wing. 

And even as guilt twinges in his chest, he keeps his gaze forward.

 

Remy spends the afternoon in thought; he wouldn’t normally call himself vapid or airheaded, and he’d definitely make a fuss should anyone else do it, but he has to admit that he can be a bit… apathetic. He has reasons - sure, convoluted and arguably pointless reasons - but it doesn’t change the fact that his sudden pensieve silence is alarming even to him. 

His father, of course, says nothing about it. 

Which is fine. He’s used to his father’s stoicness. He’s a busy man, and with Remy’s mom… no longer with them, he’s left to run the entire kingdom virtually alone (though he  _ could  _ let his son help out sometime, but nevermind that). It’s real frustrating, yes, but it’s also nothing Remy can really change. So it’s whatever. 

Whatever.

And yet Remy, when the king calls him into the main office for the daily paperwork session, hopes that maybe, just maybe, he’ll get a chance to bring up what exactly he’s been so contemplative about, and his dad will notice his efforts. (They’re damn good efforts, if he does say so himself, and not just because Damien is at the core of them.) 

The first hour of the session passes in silence; nothing Remy isn’t used to, but it means his time is running out faster than he intended - he’s determined to help Damien out, so he finally works up the nerve to clear his throat, lean forward towards his father, and say, “Dad?”

The office goes quiet as the scratch of his father’s pen against the paper stops; his dad looks to him without raising his head, staring unblinkingly at him for a good ten seconds before he goes back to his work. “What?”

_ Rocky start, but a start nonetheless.  _ “Do you…”  _ Deep breaths, Remy.  _ “Do you think we could improve the servants’ quarters?”

“...Excuse me?”

“The servants’ quarters-”

“I heard you the first time.” Remy’s mouth snaps shut. “Why?”

_ Why! _ This is, admittedly, further than he assumed he’d get - he truly thought his father would say no immediately - so he runs with it. “I was walking down the housing wing earlier-”

“Were you,” his father hums in a low voice, finally glancing at his son, a single eyebrow raised and lips pursed beneath his beard. 

_ No.  _ “Yes! And I noticed that the conditions were... outdated.”  _ Complete and utter trash.  _ “If we update some basic things, it would help the servants so much- imagine how productivity will improve!”  _ Appeal to his father’s ideals of work ethic, check.  _

His father barely blinks. “And what updates do you suggest, exactly?”

And Remy smiles - they prepared for this, he and Damien, and he recalls their list word-for-word: “Fix the faulty lighting fixtures, get some nicer blankets, maybe refurnish the walls-”

“And with what money are we to do this?”

“...oh.” ‘ _ What money?’ What do you mean, what money? We’re a goddamn kingdom, Dad, we have money.  _ “Roman told me-”

“What Roman tells you is hardly of any worth, Remus,” his father growls, something sharp glinting in his eyes, “and if you had thought this out a bit more, you might have understood that, now, wouldn’t you?”

He can’t seem to form the right words as his father’s eyes narrow, and his pen clinks against the wood of his desk when he sets it down; Remy just stutters. “Well- I didn’t think-”

“No, clearly you did not.” His father sighs, planting his hands on his desk and standing, letting the chair beneath him screech against the floor as it scoots back. “I have to say, I expected better from you. You’re nearly nineteen - it’s time to act like a prince, for God’s sake.”

Remy gapes, and he feels his chances slipping, slipping, slipping away as his father makes for the door; he jumps from his chair and hurries to the king’s side, vying for his gaze, eyeing the doorknob as the mahogany door draws closer. “Dad, this  _ is  _ me being a prince! It’s a humanitarian improvement, for the betterment of the castle staff. Isn’t that what all of this is about? I’m supposed to  _ care  _ for my people-”

“They are not your people,” his father interrupts. His voice is low, gravelly, and Remy stops like a deer in headlights, frozen in his spot. “They are mine; and you have no right to criticize my decision with your flimsy excuses, do you understand me?” Remy blinks. “ _ Do you understand me _ ?” 

With the fire in his father’s gaze, the tight, white-knuckled curl of his fists, the utter silence of the guard in the corner of the room, Remy thinks for one fleeting second that his father is going to hit him. 

He braces, averts his eyes to the floor, and mutters, “Yes.” 

But no strike comes. He simply hears the door open, so he hurries through, and it slams shut behind him, leaving his heart racing but otherwise intact. 

Remy stands in the hallway for a moment, letting the quiet emptiness knock his senses back in place, before he’s off down the corridor like a bullet - he shoulders past intrigued maids, past the warmth drifting from the kitchen, past Roman, who’s headed back the way the prince came- he even storms past the library, with his special little nook, filled with sunshine and soft memories and surefire sleep.

He passes it all, and heads for the gardens.

 

Logan has a bit of a knack for remembering faces.

It’s a learned skill, and it’s always been useful to him, even from an early age - the times when his curiosity got the better of him and he often found himself wandering through unfamiliar territory, when he was left to depend solely on his memory to get him back home, to recognize the passing of landmarks (buildings and people alike) - and especially as he started visiting his mother’s lab more, where he learned the name and specialty of every chemist near her station, recalling their faces like an AI unit (although he doubted robots could feel the adoration he did for the scientists he grew up around).

And the skill only became more honed. As his mother’s faulty steps and odd headaches got more frequent, so did the trips to the hospital; specialists of all kinds passed through his mother’s (and, by extension, his) life in a blur of tests and prescriptions, and Logan committed their faces to memory, every one, from the stern brows and strong jaws to the apologetic eyes and soft smiles. When his mother fainted in their living room one fateful evening, he remembered the faces of the state medics that carried her away; he remembered the faces of the nurses and doctors in the Infirm home, constant and blank as they were; he saw the weary expressions on the patients that surrounded his ghostly mother as she lay in that sterile bed, remembered their empty eyes and chasmic frown lines and frail movements. 

And when the professors of his dream school ended his admissions interview without making eye contact, tucking his perfect test scores away neatly beside his citizenship file in their pristine black briefcases- well, he remembered their faces, too. 

But that’s beside the point - which is, of course, that it’s this knack of his that somewhat aids his first interaction with Goethe castle’s royal advisor.

Work in the infirmary is slow as usual on that particular afternoon - Logan is just sorting through the supplies, with an occasional glance at the clock above the doctor’s private office (Patton usually visits around three, not that he keeps track) - until the door busts open, revealing a castle guard, a frantic boy not much older than Logan, whose arms are laden with a limp body that he carries bridal-style.

The guard says nothing as Logan stares at him, just rushes to the nearest bed and lays the body down, all while maintaining the composure of a headless chicken; Logan hurries to the bedside to examine the infirm.

It’s a boy his age, with chestnut waves that fall into his closed eyes, mouth slightly open as blood dribbles down the side of his face from a cut in his temple. His white uniform has scuff marks on the torso, like dirt from the bottom of shoe, and his right wrist has red marks all around. 

It takes Logan approximately two seconds to recognize him as the boy who stood behind the king’s throne the day they were brought into the castle as servants. 

“What happened?” Logan asks the guard, who just glances frantically to the door and shakes his head; Logan swallows a sigh and says instead, as patiently as he can manage, “What’s your name?”

“S-sean,” the guard stammers. 

“Alright, Sean, can you tell me who this is?” The guard looks dubious. “I need to file a medical report.”

“He said no reports,” Sean says vehemently, leaning in over the unconscious boy’s body to whisper to Logan when he sees the medic’s raised eyebrows. “Keep it quiet, please? I don’t want anything else to happen to him. Please.”

Logan’s confused frown only deepens at that - he glances down at the boy on the bed, brow knit. “What are you talking about?” Sean flinches as the clocks strike two, and bells ring in the distance. “Who did this to him?”

“You can help him, right? He’s gonna be okay?”

“Of course, but I need to know-”

“His name is Roman,” Sean rushes, “and I’m real sorry, sir, but I don’t want to say too much- I’m sorry, I gotta go. You’ll make him okay?”

“Yes-”

Sean practically sprints from the infirmary, letting the door thud shut behind him.

Leaving Logan with a body. 

The medic heaves a sigh and stares down at the boy on the bed; the bright red sash Logan remembers is gone, leaving the tacky gold embellishments of the jacket on display, though one of the strings connected to a button is torn and hanging sadly from its stitches. As Logan leans in, he’s only more convinced that the scuff marks across the coarse white fabric are from the heel of a shoe. They’re not dark enough for the boy to have been trampled, but kicked, perhaps, or simply held down.

Logan rolls up the hem of the boy’s jacket just enough to see bruises starting to form across his torso - kicked it is, then.

The cut on the boy - Roman’s - head is his next focus; it’s nothing serious, though the impact was obviously enough to knock him unconscious and he’ll no doubt have a headache when he wakes, but to Logan, the bleeding itself was caused by something sharp on whatever it was he was hit with; and, finally, the marks on Roman’s wrist. They’re angry red lines, like whoever had a hold on him was doing so for dear life; Logan would chalk it up to rope burn if not for the crescent stamps on the side of the boy’s wrist - intentional, deep, and most certainly not from rope. Someone attacked him.

The idea doesn’t bode well with the medic, of course - normally he’d brush it all off as a lost scuffle with one of the other castlegoers, but Sean’s panicked state and vehement regurgitation of orders, not to mention the implication that this - whatever  _ this _ is exactly - could happen to Roman again should someone slip up about it, put an edge to the situation that makes alarms blare in Logan’s head. He has questions upon questions upon questions for him, for Sean, for whoever mandated the secrecy of it all. 

But the dead don’t speak, and Roman’s unconscious silence makes him as good as dead. (Until further notice, that is.)

So Logan sighs again - a regular occurrence with his new situation, he finds - and heads back to the supply cart he’d been organizing before Sean and Roman made their entrance, grabbing gauze and rubbing alcohol and returning to Roman’s side. 

Just as he goes to treat the abrasions on his wrist, the door slams open. 

Logan squeezes his eyes shut, takes a deep breath, and turns back to the door, half-expecting to see Sean hyperventilating in the threshold again- before he perks up.

Patton’s cheeks are flushed from the kitchen’s warmth still, his strawberry curls disheveled and spilling into his eyes as he beams at Logan from the doorway, dimples whittled into his freckled face; the edges of his glasses are still fogged up, which means he probably ran to the infirmary. The thought makes Logan curiously happy. The tension in his shoulders dissipates, and he feels a smile tug at his lips as Patton waltzes past the doors and into the room. 

“Good mornin’, Logy,” Patton greets cheerfully - Logan’s smile widens at that singsong Irish lilt, despite having heard it every day for the past four weeks (it’s not as if he’s never met someone with an accent before; most of the nurse interns at the Iowa Infirm Home were anything from Russian to Brazilian, and Logan spoke with enough of them to get used to a decent number of the cadences, but there’s just something about how Patton’s smile seems to permeate his every word that turns his accent into a song - one Logan never tires of hearing).   

But the medic smothers his blush, quirking an eyebrow at the clock above the door. “It’s two thirty in the afternoon, Patton.”

“...ah, so it is.” Patton squints at the clock, as if it betrayed him, and sighs. “I should really start getting here earlier, huh?”

“I wouldn’t mind that.” 

They share a small smile as Patton glances over to him, a smattering of pink across his cheeks that makes his freckles stand out even more- until the Irish boy’s eyes finally land on the bed beside Logan. 

“ _ Roman _ ?!” 

Logan blinks. “You know him?” (He really needs to get out of this damned infirmary sometimes; he seems to miss more than he learns.)

“Yeah, he visits the kitchen all the time!” Patton glances between him and a still unconscious Roman, eyebrows furrowed and eyes wide with concern. “What happened to him?”

“I’m… not sure. He was dropped off rather suddenly, I’m afraid. He’ll be alright, I’m certain,” he adds at Patton’s wringing wrists, “just a bit disoriented when he wakes up.” Logan’s gaze falls to the quickly-drying blood from Roman’s temple. “...And he’ll probably have a headache.”

“Poor Ro,” Patton sighs, shuffling to the bedside to take a closer look at his injuries. He gasps suddenly, bumping into Logan as he jumps back in his spot, and he grabs at the medic’s wrists with a twinkle in his eyes; Logan can feel the heat crawling up his neck. “I should bring him muffins!”

“...Muffins?”

“Yeah! As a feel-better gift!” A smile lights up his face. “What do you think?”

“Does he… like muffins?”

“I don’t see why he wouldn’t,” Patton shrugs, as if it’s obvious. “And I can get ‘em down here real easy if I tell the head chefs they’re for the infirmary patients! Well, patient.”

He looks expectantly at Logan; his fingers are still curled around the medic’s wrists, and they’re practically nose-to-nose - save for the fact that Patton is at least an inch shorter than him - and Logan short-circuits just a bit. 

“I think it sounds great,” he manages finally, albeit with a crack halfway through. It’s undoubtedly worth it as Patton’s whole face brightens. 

“I’ll bring them by later!” he cheers; his smile dampens a second later, and his excited bouncing slows to a stop. “Which means I probably need to get back to the kitchen,” he says quietly. 

Something in Logan’s chest aches - he understands the hesitation, the quiet resolution. It’s still unfamiliar and discomfiting to walk the halls of the castle as an imposter; no matter how comfortable he is within the white walls of the infirmary, there’s always a prick at his thoughts that reminds him he doesn’t belong here, that his stay here will end one way or another, and only through his own failure or success. The weight of the lie is heavy on his shoulders, and he has no doubt that Patton - kind, honest, compassionate Patton - feels it so much worse.

“Hey,” he says softly, prompting Patton to meet his eyes again; Logan shifts his hands in Patton’s loosened grip and laces their fingers together. “We’ve made it this far in, haven’t we? Take it one day at a time, and we’ll keep making it.” 

Patton blinks up at him, his round eyes shining as his mouth quirks into a tiny smile. “Yeah,” he says, voice tinged with a soft laugh, “we will. Thank you, Logan.” 

And as much as Logan wants to hear his name in Patton’s voice again and again and again, because the Irish boy makes it sound like the ringing of church bells without even trying - it’s foolish, the fluttering in Logan’s chest, but he’d be lying if he said it’s unpleasant - a warning strikes him like a tidal wave, and his fingers curl tighter around Patton’s. 

“You can’t tell anyone about Roman,” he urges - Patton frowns. “The guard who dropped Roman off said not to- I don’t know why, but don’t even tell the other cooks for the muffins, Patton.” It was stupid of him to let Patton into the infirmary with Roman here, especially after Sean’s warning, and he swallows around a lump in his throat as he adds quietly, “I don’t want you to get hurt because of me.”

The infirmary is quiet for a few seconds, filled only by the muffled birdsongs and the brush of tree branches outside the window, until Patton gives a very soft, “Oh.”

“I won’t,” the Irish boy continues, giving Logan a confident nod as their link loosens. “I’ll see you later with muffins,” he winks as he turns to the doors. Logan can’t help but smile. 

And as the door shuts behind the cook, leaving Logan alone with an unconscious royal advisor at his side once more, Logan is glad to remember faces so well, if just to fill the tedious emptiness of the infirmary with the memory of Patton’s smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wowee! Chapter two already - i already had it done lol - but imma try and write chapter 3 soon to get it out quicker! ;)


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing Roman notices as he feels consciousness seeping painfully back into his mind, amidst the harsh white lights overhead and the distinct dryness in his throat, is the smell of chocolate. 

His whole body aches when he peels his eyes open. There’s a throbbing in his wrist, paired with something scratchy against his skin, and when he goes to inspect it, a dull pain that makes the world spin a bit shoots through his head. He squeezes his eyes shut again; the chocolatey smell grows stronger as his senses, however unpleasant, return to him in their full strength. 

“Oh, good, you’re awake.” 

The voice - oddly flat and not at all the pompous cheer Roman remembers of the castle’s doctor - startles his eyes open immediately; he glances over, slowly, to find a boy with dark hair and square glasses, clad in the plain white button down and pressed slacks of the infirmary staff. His face is blank, save for a single raised eyebrow as his eyes flicker over Roman’s face - he looks oddly familiar, but Roman’s head is still too foggy to recall anything specific. 

“I was getting worried,” the boy clips. “You’ve been asleep for a few hours now.” 

Roman feels a beat of panic in his heart. “Hours?” he says hoarsely. He knew it hadn’t been good news when he’d felt…  _ whatever  _ it was connect with his head - he could only guess it to be a paperweight - but brain damage hadn’t been high on his list of expectations (not that he’d really had time to form a list), nor is it something he imagines will be beneficial to his job. 

“Yes.” The boy catches sight of Roman’s face, no doubt pale, and raises both eyebrows (despite the fact that one seems to be permanently raised regardless). “Oh, not because of your injuries directly, sorry- you woke up about ten minutes after you arrived, but the doctor administered some pain relief medicine that must have sedated you further.” He tsks, turning back to the supplies he’s organizing, “I suggested a lower dose, but he’s… eh,  _ stubborn _ . Nevermind my advice, right? Useless.

“Can you tell me your name?” he continues seamlessly, voice flat once more, and Roman starts. 

“Oh- uh, Roman.” He watches the boy nod, though he makes no move to document it anywhere. 

“And where are you?”

Ah. “I thought you said my injuries weren’t bad?” 

“I said you weren’t unconscious for hours because of them,” the boy says, “but that doesn’t rule out the possibility of a head injury. Answer the question, please.”

Resisting the urge to pout, Roman sighs. “Goethe’s infirmary.” 

“Do you remember your position here?” 

“...the royal advisor?” 

A smirk finally colors the boy’s face. “You sound unsure.” 

“Well, you phrased that weirdly! I’m the royal advisor, I have been for a year and a half, I’m a patient in the infirmary right now, and I’d really rather not be; happy?”

“That went far beyond what I actually needed, but yes, thank you.” He leans down suddenly, rummaging through something on the floor beside Roman’s wire-frame bed, and straightens up, short bangs falling onto his forehead as he holds the found object out to the royal advisor. “Muffin?”

The source of the chocolatey smell is indeed a muffin, rather large and golden across the top, wrapped in crinkly purple and white paper. Roman blinks at it, even as he accepts and lifts it from the boy’s hand; pain shoots up from his torso - he does his best to ignore it and the flash of a memory that accompanies it. “Do all infirms get a treat?” he simpers, peeling contentedly at the muffin’s polka-dot wrapper.

“Not as far as I know,” the boy says; something warm twinkles in his eyes, though Roman notices it’s directed starkly at the muffin. “Just a gift from a friend, I suppose.” 

“A friend?” 

The boy nods. “Patton,” he clarifies, a tiny smile pulling at his mouth, before he clears his throat and smooths his expression. “He’s a cook. He says you two know each other.” 

The name takes a minute to register, but when it does, Roman’s eyes light up. “Patton!” Yes, the boy in the kitchen with the unruly curls! “He’s a sweetheart whenever I visit the kitchen staff.” 

The boy frowns and says nothing - that, with the sparkle in his eyes and smile, clicks in Roman’s mind; the royal advisor takes a small bite of his muffin and adds, oh-so slyly, “You’re Logan, I take it?”

The boy freezes. “...yes? How-”

“Patton talks about you every time I see him. He keeps telling me I should come down here to meet you - I didn’t even think about it, even though it should have been obvious, considering I believe I’ve met every other infirmary nurse.” Logan gives him a dubious look. “ _ He’s very smart, _ ” Roman mimics in an awful Irish accent, batting his eyelashes as Logan’s face turns bright red immediately, “ _ and he could be a doctor, and he’s so sweet, and- _ ”

“You can stop.” 

Roman takes another bite of his muffin. “It’s nice to finally meet you,” he says after a moment. “Patton’s truly very enthusiastic about you.” 

Logan says nothing, but Roman doesn’t miss the smattering of pink that remains on his face. 

“Did you two come here together?” He recalls the small group of four shuffling into the castle’s main hall weeks ago; this nurse boy and Patton, the steely boy with the pale splashes on his face, and- Roman’s easy smile falls. And Virgil. 

“We rode on the same train, if that’s what you mean.” Logan pulls his attention back as he picks through the supplies on the cart before him, lifting seemingly random bottles to read their labels and setting them down again. “I’m from Iowa.” 

“Ah.” Roman has no doubt the second, implicit side of that response points towards Patton’s heavy accent - not many immigrants make it past Washington’s desolate planes, as far as the royal advisor knows, unjust as it may be. The infirmary falls silent, save for the clink of glass bottles against the metal tray on Logan’s cart. Roman nibbles at his muffin. “I’m from the Dakotas.”

Logan pauses to glance at him. “Dakotas? And you got into a castle training program?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

The medic’s face turns sour again. “Nothing. Excuse me.” 

“You-”

“Take this.” Logan shoves two powdery capsules and cup of water toward him, before twisting the lid of one of the bottles back into place with short, jerky motions. “Make sure to come back here tomorrow and get more gauze for your wrist.” 

Roman’s gaze finally returns to the source of the scratchiness on his right hand - he lifts his arm experimentally, and a wave of heat blossoms in his wrist. The memory of nails digging into his skin returns to him in a burst; he drops his arm and takes the pills in his hand. 

“Can you walk?” Logan asks him, voice flat once more. It makes Roman’s stomach turn with guilt, just a little - he was beginning to like the medic. 

But he forces that feeling down as he sits up in bed, dutifully ignoring the sharp pain in his abdomen, and flips his legs over the side before pushing himself to his feet. His head swims for a second, but that’s it, so he shuffles a few steps. 

Logan seems satisfied. “You can go, if you want, but I’d suggest no strenuous activity for the next few days.” 

They go quiet again - Roman finally notices the gray clouds rolling in over the horizon, sending breezes to rustle the plants outside the infirmary’s towering windows - until the medic blurts, “How did that happen?”

Roman knows, even from the vague nod that accompanies the question, that Logan is asking about his injuries. “Sparring match,” he says after a minute of silence. It’s a halfhearted lie, and Logan’s raised eyebrow isn’t a surprise. 

“They told me not to tell anyone you were in here,” Logan says, voice smaller, even. “Why is that?”

“You know why.”

And Roman, as Logan nods almost imperceptibly, wonders if the doctor is in his office at the back of the infirmary, if he’s heard every word they’ve said. He wonders how much he already knows. He imagines Logan’s stern demeanor has caused more than a few issues with the king’s faithful lapdog of a physician - pompous prick - and another spike of panic pierces his heart as he considers the consequences of his and Logan’s conversation, should the doctor have overheard. Roman already put Remy too close to harm’s way; he doesn’t want to risk it with anyone else.  

“I’d better get going,” the advisor says briskly, straightening his spine and folding his hands behind his back. “Thank you for everything,” his eyes fall to the wrapper lying limp on his bed, “and I’ll be sure to thank Patton for the muffins.”

Logan smiles as if on instinct - it lights up his face, and Roman much prefers it to the medic’s careful blankness. “Of course.” 

The royal advisor takes a deep breath, though the cold, static air of the infirmary burns his sinuses, before turning toward the door, braced to face whatever backlash was left for him. How much do the castle guards know? Should he be wary of them, too? How much does  _ Remy  _ know? Questions twist into painful knots in his stomach, hidden turmoil beneath the bruises.

“And Roman?”

He glances over his shoulder with a start - Logan’s eyes glint with something sharp, almost protective, and Roman suddenly has no issue seeing why Patton likes him so much.

“Be careful.” 

A smile tugs at Roman’s mouth as he gives one last nod, turns on his heel, and heads to the door. 

 

Damien Perkovich has never complained about being an only child. 

His parents lamented about his somewhat lonely childhood - especially since he wasn’t exactly keen on making friends with the straight-backed kids at his school, children of artists and scientists and authors with their noses in the air - but he liked the quiet of it all. He had plenty of time to read the novels his mom brought home from the university she taught at, to listen to his father about whatever lesson he was planning for his physics students, even if he didn’t understand all of it; and when he and his parents were forced from their powder-blue house by the lake, ripping away everything Damien had known for the first fifteen years of his life, there was no one to tell on him when his uppity classmates’ cherished tokens of pristine lives started disappearing from their pockets and appearing in his. So whatever milestones siblings provided were of no concern to him.

“I just don’t understand what to  _ do  _ about him!” 

Until now. 

“He’s always telling me, ‘Remus, stay focused, have some common sense, being selfish will ruin you,’” Remy seethes, face flushed - Damien imagines the sunlight beating down on their little alcove in the library doesn’t do much to help - as he yanks at a loose tassle on the pillow in his lap. “But when I  _ try  _ to do what he wants, he just gets mad at me again! I can’t make him happy!”

And it’s while sitting here, cross-legged on a ridiculously cushioned nook in the back of the castle’s library, right next to a very irate prince, that Damien wishes his parents had committed to their vision of a perfect family of four and given him someone to practice emotional bonding on, because he’s at a loss.

Remy groans, faceplanting into the pillow and effectively making Damien’s grimace ten times worse. “What if he’s right,” the prince grumbles into the golden satin, “and I’m destined to mess up no matter what?” 

“Of course you’re not destined to mess up,” snorts Damien - Remy glances up with a frown. Tact is far from a Perkovich family trait. “What? That’s not how life works.” 

“How would you know how life works?”

A sigh escapes him before he can stop it. “Fair enough.” Remy gives the tiniest of victorious smiles, and Damien takes it as a win, even if the prince is still gripping a pillow like it scorned him. “Why don’t you just ignore him?”

That tiny smile is gone as Remy blinks at him and says, deadpan, “You want me to ignore the king.” 

“I’m suggesting,” Damien corrects tersely, “that you ignore your  _ dad _ , and just focus on being what you think the country will need when you become king.” 

He realizes, very starkly and with the tiniest bit of turning in his stomach when faced with Remy’s mournful gray eyes, that he and the others’ main goal is to rid the country of a king altogether, but he has enough tact to hold that in for the time being. Besides, Remy is too busy squinting to hear anything else he’d say anyway. 

“Like… plan my own reformations?” The prince furrows his eyebrows. “How would I get them past my father?”

“Maybe you don’t.” Remy frowns, squinting more, and Damien forces down a laugh at how remarkably youthful the action is - the pristine, sophisticated image of the prince he’d grown up seeing on TV is far less intriguing than this bumbly enigma. “How long does the king have left on the throne? Three years? Five? Surely you can hang onto ideas for a little bit and put them into action when you have control.” 

_ When.  _ As if it’s a guarantee that the kingdom will exist for Remy to control - though Damien supposes, in Remy’s mind, it is. 

He really doesn’t like this twisting in his stomach. 

“So,” Remy starts slowly, clearly flipping the idea around in his head, “go behind my father’s back?”

“Just for a while, but yes, essentially.” 

Another contemplative silence. “For the better of the kingdom?” 

“If that’s what you’re going for.”

Remy gives a short nod, and a few stray waves bounce in front of his face. “For the better of the kingdom.” His grip on the pillow in his lap finally loosens; he smooths the wrinkles in its satin, tongue peeking out from between his lips. It’s an entertaining sight that Damien doesn’t mind in the slightest. 

“Sorry for pulling you away from your work earlier,” the prince says suddenly. 

Unfinished bush-trimming had hardly been Damien’s first concern when Remy had stormed into the garden and dragged him to the library by the elbow a few hours earlier - sure, it had struck him afterwards that the grounds overseer wouldn’t be thrilled, but his immediate fear of being beheaded mostly eclipsed any other factor of the situation. (To find himself pushed into a mountain of purple and gold pillows was not what he expected, but again, the whole beheading thing fogged up his comprehension skills a great deal.) 

“It’s not a big deal,” he says, swiping a hand through the air as if to wave the apology away. “I might have some explaining to do to the overseer, but-”

“Oh, I can take care of that.” Remy gives him a small smile. “Thank you for helping me out with this mess- or at least listening to me rant.” 

“No problem, your Highness,” Damien finally allows himself to mirror the grin, tilting his head at the prince.

“Call me Remy.”

“Oh?” Remy’s smile widens as Damien raises his eyebrows, putting a hand to chest with a dramatic gasp. “First name, huh? Do I still get to bow when you exit?”

“Well, of course,” sighs the prince, and he fans himself, nose in the air. “Not all privileges of royalty can be so flippantly discarded, dear Damien.” 

The soft, buzzing quiet of the library is filled suddenly with their laughter, snickers at their own ridiculous antics. (Remy’s nose scrunches up when he laughs, which seems to highlight how little Damien has ever seen him so recklessly joyful, onscreen or off - for a brief moment, the somersaults in the servant’s stomach are more pleasant than not as pride rushes through him for being a cause of such sweet a sound as the prince’s laughing.) 

“Oh, it’s getting dark,” Remy comments as their laughter trails off. Damien follows his gaze out the window: dark clouds paint the horizon, covering up the sunset almost completely, though streaks of gold peek through in small increments. He would still be in the garden, if he’d stayed, pulling away at the thorns that deformed the pristine blooms in neat rows. (He’s never understood why thorns are removed - they’re there to protect the flowers, defend them from harm, so to remove their prickly shields seems like risking the livelihoods of something you’d so long curated to perfection.) He’s ultimately glad to have been pulled to the library, watching the sky now with the familiar comfort of books and the novel company of a royal smile. 

“I should probably get back to the office,” Remy says quietly. 

“Oh.” Damien feels his shoulders fall involuntarily, which is stupid, because he doesn’t expect Remy to spend all his time with him. It’s not like he wants him to, anyway. He does, however, and with the slightest of solace, notice that Remy’s posture slouches all the same. “Right. I should go to my room- I need to clean up a little, anyway.” 

Remy just hums in response, eyes tracing the clouds in the sky, “I’ll see you later.” It’s simple, but the prince’s voice is careful and deliberate, and Damien feels it’s more of a promise than a departing formality. 

“Of course, your-” He clears his throat. “Remy. I’ll see you later.” 

He stands from the alcove seat and gives a dramatic bow, mouth quirking into a smile as Remy’s soft laughter fills his ears again; he finds it’s the perfect melody to keep in mind as he leaves the library and heads back to his room. 

 

As much as the wire-frame beds in the servants’ quarters creak, cry, and shiver under the slightest weight, have the warmth of a Washington hailstorm, and feel like actual cardboard, Patton stills prefers them to no bed at all. 

(It’s not that he  _ didn’t  _ have a bed back home, it’s just that with the twins sharing a bed, and his younger brothers sharing another, his oldest-younger sister, Siobhan, would have to share the last bed with  _ him _ , and he didn’t want to force her to curl up, so he took to the floor. Even the most rickety excuses for beds are better than a borderline-dirt floor.) It does help, admittedly, that he has a companion to distract him from whatever discomfort remains. 

Companions, he means. Plural. Of course. 

“It’s nice to finally read something other than eye examination charts,” Logan sighs, flipping through the pages of a book with a worn, cracked spine, a shadow of a wistful smile on his face as he scans its pages. Patton just hums, content to watch that smile grow, slow as it is. 

“How’d you get that, anyway?”

“I bribed one of the guards with a leftover muffin.” Logan looks up as Patton gives a surprised snort, eyes twinkling. “They’re very persuasive bartering material! You should be proud.” 

“Well, thank you! Maybe I should try that myself- ya think I could get a harmonica here with the power of muffins alone?” 

A crooked smile lights up Logan’s face - it takes just about everything Patton has not to stare at him (openly, that is; he manages just fine with subtlety, thank you). “It’s worth a try, I suppose.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” he grins with a wink, noticing and delighting in the flush of pink that crosses Logan’s face. 

Yes, the bed’s discomfort is far from his first priority.

Both boys jump in their spots as the door slams open, hitting the wall behind it with a jarring  _ crack _ . Virgil stalks through the doorway and kicks the door closed with his heel before collapsing on his bed; his hair is mussed in front of his face, though the scowl beneath it is still clear as day. 

“Virge,” Patton starts slowly, “you okay?” 

“M’fine.” 

Patton sends Logan a curious glance, eyebrows raised, and Logan clears his throat. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“You can talk to us-”

“Can you guys go parent someone else? I’m really tired.” And with that, Virgil crosses his arms, curls up in his bed, and closes his eyes. 

Logan tsks but turns back to his book, leaning back against the sparse metal headboard to start his book. “Moody, moody,” he mutters under his breath. Virgil’s flipping him off and the light smack to his arm from Patton only earn a miniscule smirk. 

Patton, in the empty silence that follows, lays back at the end of Logan’s bed, where he’s lounging in the castle’s issued, scratchy pajamas (which, for him, are just a white shirt and pale blue pants that he’s almost positive did not start out blue). The ceiling above him is painted brown with grime, pierced with cracks and stains; Patton’s eyes trail down their serpentine paths in his need for animation. Something about it reminds him of late nights at home, though the servants’ quarters severely lack the constant bustle of his younger siblings. He feels an ache in his chest at the thought of them - he knows what he’s doing is for them, that it’s necessary to be so far away from his family, but he longs for his the sound of Siobhan’s singing, the clamor of the twins’ antics, Conner’s excited rambling or Adrian’s soft comments. The kitchen is a comfort in its noise, since the rest of the castle lacks it so solemnly. 

“Evening, fuckers.”

Well, usually. 

“Damien,” Logan says drily without looking up from his book. “You’re back early.”

Patton tilts his head back to see Damien swing the door closed, a rare smile on his face. “I got a reprieve from my horticultural duties,” he sings, “so I’m here, you’re welcome.”

“Shut up and let me sleep.” 

Virgil’s voice is muffled by the pillow his face is buried in, but Damien seems to hear him clearly, judging by the way his expression pinches with distaste. “‘Scuse me, Little Miss Sunshine.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Well, if you stay so  _ cheery _ -”

“How was your day, Damien?” Patton cuts in as he rolls over and leans his head on the palm of his hand. Damien’s eyes flicker between him and a very book-involved Logan a foot away, a single eyebrow raised. 

“Fine,” he says simply, evenly, abandoning his scuffle with Virgil as quickly as it started in favor of collapsing onto his own bed. “Uneventful.”

“No new info?”

“Unfortunately not, save for the fact that the king’s an asshole.”

“I’d hardly call that new information,” Logan interrupts, voice robotic - Patton elbows him lightly, giving a questioning look when the bespectacled boy meets his eyes. Logan, after a glance to make sure Damien is preoccupied with fashioning his work jacket into a pillow, puts a finger to his own shoulder and pulls it down, across his chest and to the opposite hip. It takes Patton a moment to realize it’s a sash.  _ Roman _ . 

“What about you, Sunshine?” Damien leers, linking his fingers together behind his head as he lays down. 

“I  _ said _ don’t call me that,” snaps Virgil. 

“Doesn’t answer my question.”

“Fuck off.” 

“Aw, is Virge upset because he doesn’t have any intel yet?” Damien’s grin is sharp, jeering - Patton knows where this is headed. “Join the club, buddy, don’t hate it.”

“Just shut up and let me sleep, Perkovich.”

“Damien, don’t bother him tonight,” Patton chides. 

Damien’s smile melts as he sits up, narrowing his eyes at the the Irish boy, a sneer on his lips. “Sorry,  _ Dad _ , didn’t realize you were in charge.”

“Hey,” Logan snaps, gaze finally leaving the pages in front of him, “watch it.”

“Oh, Loverboy coming to the rescue, huh? That’s cute-”

“ _ Damien, shut the fuck up and go to sleep _ .” 

Virgil’s eyes are aflame, even more than Logan’s, as he sits upright in bed, his grim demeanor turned incendiary tonight, so much so that Damien’s mouth snaps shut. Patton has no clue what happened to upset him, but for once, he’s glad for an abrasive voice to aid him. Or to put the other abrasive voices to a stop, at least. 

“Fine,” Damien spits - he stalks to the cord hanging down in the middle of the room and yanks it, painting them all in darkness. “Goodnight.” 

The room is silent for a good few minutes, equal parts shocked and irate. The ache in Patton’s heart seems to double in this painful emptiness, just after it started to disappear at its snail pace; his mother would be disappointed, he knows, to see what little control he has over the peace in this setting, and his father would berate his passiveness. He just wants a hug. 

A small, metallic creak pierces the quiet, and suddenly there’s a hand in his own, fingers lacing with his with a gentle tug. Logan shifts to his side and bumps their shoulders together - Patton just sighs, drops his head onto Logan’s shoulder, and squeezes his eyes shut. 

As the darkness tugs at his mind, he wishes more than anything else for the ache to disappear just a little bit faster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taken so long for this update! I have no excuses  
> (check out @coconut-cluster on tumblr for more updates and rambles about this story and others!!)


End file.
